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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



LITTLE ITALY 




.1/;'^". Minnie Maddcni Fiskc 
as Giulia in "Little Italy." 




LITTLE 
ITALY 

A TRAGEDY 

IN ONE 

ACT 

BY 

HORACE B. FRY 




NEW YORK 

R. H. RUSSELL 

MCM I I 







/s* (P^T Ur* S^ 



THt UIBRAKY 9f 

©ONGRESS, 
Two OoPifcs /Jec£ivE9 

iViAR. 3 ■ ^9»? 

£!|r>HT ENTRY 
>S XXc No. 

COPY a 



Copyright, 1902, by 
HARRISON GREY FISKE 



PREFACE 





111 


<!i^^^^ (TM^^'C^-C^^vi" 



HEN a play has found favor not 
only with the public but with 
many of the critics, there may be 
a valid reason for printing it, for 
somehow the world is disposed to 
withhold the rank, no matter how 
humble the work might be en- 
titled to, until it shall have emerged 
in type and between binder's boards. 

Some years ago Punch gave a picture of several enthu- 
siastic amateurs gloating over a very old violin. They 
are eulogizing its admirable construction, its beautiful 
lines, graceful neck, even the pegs seemed to come in 
for their share. It is at the moment when an unappre- 
ciative Philistine, who happened to be present, is asking: 
" But how will it sound? " The picture shows the indig- 
nation of the group which believes it is squelching the 
Philistine's impertinence with: " Look at the varnish! " 

When a play in type is under inspection, it is of very 
small consequence that its construction and dialogue may 
be up to the highest literary standard, but " How will it 
act? " is the question, and nothing atones for the absence 
of this essential. 

Fortunately for the author of " Little Italy," his modest 
play fell into the hands of Mrs. Fiske. This lady, with 



PREFACE 

the skill of a Duse, incarnated his ideas so thoroughly 
that justice requires that she be regarded as not only his 
interpreter but collaborator. Equally fortunate was he 
with Mr. de Belleville, whose creation was worthy of a 
Salvini ; and to Mr. Tyrone Power the author also admits 
his acknowledgments. Therefore he may say, with all 
reserve: the question of "How will it act?" has been 
settled. 

Before the passage of the copyright law of 1891 there 
was little protection and no property that was unassail- 
able in a manuscript play. These conditions must have 
existed for centuries. Mr. H. W. Mabie, in his admirable 
life of Shakespeare, says of the Elizabethan stage (p. 140): 
"These plays were, in some instances, not even printed; 
they existed only as unpublished manuscripts. In many 
cases a play did not exist as an entirety even in manu- 
script; it existed only in parts, with cues for the different 
actors. The publication of a play was the very last thing 
desired by the writer, or by the theatre to which it was 
sold and to which it belonged, and every precaution was 
taken to prevent a publicity which was harmful to the 
interests of author and owner. Shorthand writers often 
took down the speeches of actors, and in this way plays 
were stolen and surreptitiously printed; but they were 
full of inaccuracies — verse passages become prose, etc." 
But in our day we have changed these conditions. 

Inasmuch as reading a play on the morrow of seeing 
it is a delight — provided it is a good play — we are led 
to refer to the opinions of one if not the greatest of modern 
dramatists, Alexandre Dumas, fils. He has recorded 



PREFACE 

them on the subject of writing and printing plays, be- 
Heving their value and interest to be enhanced if in type. 
His prefaces were his favorite channels wherein the social 
problems exploited on his stage were conveyed as his 
legacies to the world — the prefaces, generally as long as 
the plays, prove the beneficial task the stage can perform. 
He has given his reflections with so much frankness on 
this subject and the cognate one of dramatic writing at 
the hands of M. Scribe, that it has been thought desirable 
to translate the preface to " Un Pere Prodigue," and give 
it as an entertaining appendix to " Little Italy." 

The copyright law is now beneficent to all concerned — 
to the playwriter, the novelist, the manager, and the pub- 
lic. The latter need be no longer cheated, at least with im- 
punity, by barnstorming organizations and pirated plays. 
And if the printed novel makes the most welcome or pop- 
ular introducer of the play based upon it, why may not 
an original play introduce itself, stand on its own merits, 
and secure its own vogue? That the play is not such easy 
reading as the novel is conceded, and for the reasons 
M. Dumas details; yet much of the difificulty may be the 
fault of the author rather than the reader. At all events, 
the fashion of former times, when plays were read, can 
come round again, and the taste of a past century can 
revive; for, since leisure is growing less in our strenuous 
lives, while our imaginations were never so alert, the 
concentrated form of the play that the laws of dramatic 
writing exact may commend it to the readers of our day 
who have little time to luxuriate in the ampHtude of the 
novel. 



PREFACE 

With apologies, therefore, the author presents the short 
domestic tragedy of " Little Italy," claiming that it truly 
depicts an obscure form of life in New York City, and 
that such a woman as Giiilia really lived there. Nostalgia 
is a malady not confined to rich or poor, and true love, 
however humble, will scour the world to find its lost 
object. These themes appeal to all, and might entertain 
the reader who never saw the play enacted. " Little 
Italy " is only one more of " the short and simple annals 
of the poor." H. B. F. 



First performed November 17, 1898, at the 

Grand Opera House, Chicago, by 

Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske, 

Mr. De Belleville, and 

Mr. 'Tyrone Power 



LITTLE ITALY 

AN ORIGINAL TRAGEDY 
IN ONE ACT 



Place — The Italian Quarter on the East Side of the 
City of New York. 



Time — 1898. 



CHARACTERS 

Fabio Rinaldi a fat Italian baker of forty 

» MiCHELE an itinerant singer of twenty-five 

Fabio' s wife, a nervous, hard-working 



GlULIA , ^ ,. 

Italian of twenty-two 
GiojA Rinaldi . . .a girl of six years, step-daughter of Giulia 

All speak good English except Michele. 



SCENE 

A sordid living-room, with a closet-room, L. , on the fourth 
floor of a tenement-house of five floors. 

Note — In the basement is the ItaUan bakery of Fabio Rinaldi, which is 
entered from the street. The window of the scene opens on the court. 
When this practicable window opens, fire-escapes and drying clothes 
are seen. 




A, Bed. 

B, Clothes-line and clothes drying. 

C, Door opening on stairs. 

D, Cooking-stove. 

E, Door to dumb-waiter, the rope is 

seen. 

F, Window overlooking court. 



G, Door to closet where Gioja sleeps. 
H, Dresser, with drawers. 
1,1, Two candlesticks. 

K, Chromo of the Virgin— hanging 
on the wall. 

L, Black wooden crucifix hanging 
on the wall. 



LITTLE ITALY 



SCENE FIRST 




T rise of curtain Giulia is discov- 
ered sitting at the windoiv. 
She is the picture of a humble 
toiling young Italian, as she, 
pensively in a crooning voice, 
intones: 
Quando io ricordo bella Napoli, 
Voglio e ti ritorno, oh! citta del 
ciel! 
Siamo stranieri e pelegrini qui, 
Poss'io reveder ancora prima io mori.* 
[Her voice breaks zvith grief, as after a pause she resumes, 
in lozu-pitched tones:] 

Oh! Napoli, NapoH, io non ti vedro piu.f 
[Despairingly she buries her face in her hands, zvhile the 
music of the play is still heard on muted stringed 
instruments.] 

* When I remember beautiful Naples, 
I would return to thee, O city of Heaven. 
We are strangers and pilgrims here, 
Could I see thee again before I die. 

t O Naples ! Naples ! I shall not see thee more. 

[ I ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

[Enter Fabio Rinaldi, her husband, in the garb of a 
working baker, fresh from his bakery. He is in 
his shirt-sleeves and his trousers are white in places. 
He is carrying a pan containing their dinner, which 
he sets upon the stove. He approaches her a tip-toe 
and touches her shoulder. She jumps up.] 

G I u L I A . 
Ah, Fabio ! How you frighten ! Why d'you come in 
like that? 

Fabio {contrite, then critical). 
I was thinking Gioja might be sleeping. Diavolo! 
What's the matter? Eh? You thinking about Napoli 
again ? Always now Napoli, Napoli ! You suppose it 
nice for a man to come in and find his wife always cry- 
ing because she cannot live in Italy ? 

G I u L I A {firmly). 
I am an Italian. I cannot be an American. Even every 
American woman you see on the street wants to live in 
Italy. No Italian woman wants to live in New York. 
Not one. 

Fabio. 
Ah! bah! bah! 

G I U L I A . 

Not one. Do you bring the dinner up from the oven ? 

Fabio. 
Si! [Pointing to the pan on the stove.\ 

G I u L I A {zvearily). 
I did not know it was dinner-time. 

[She sets the table; places on a dish the pan of beef 

[ 2 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

and potatoes; gets out a bottle of red wine, a pitcher of 
water, and glasses. There is silence, during which 
Fabio shows he is greatly disturbed. Business.\ 

F A B I O . 

[Going to the closet door and quietly calling.] 

Gioja! 
Gi U LI A . 
No. No. Better she eat nothing to-day, and she will 
be well to-morrow. Let her go to sleep. 

Fabio. 
What you think make her sick — eh? 

Gi u L I A . 
What makes every child sick — eh? I tell you what 
makes her sick. She says, " Papa give me apple," and 
you give her a big green apple. Little more and you 
have to get a doctor ! Eh ? 

Fabio. 
Is she better? 

G I u L I A . 
Si ! Look you don't give her more of the same sort. 

Fabio. 

No, I let you, I will not. [Pause. They sit at table 

and eat in silence.] You make a good step-mother to 

that little one. [Pause.] Sometimes I say to myself, 

" Gioja love you the same as if you was her own mother." 

G I U L I A . 

Gioja would not know the difference if some affanore 
of a busybody did not tell it to her. [Pause, zvhile they 
eat.] Who is in the shop? 

[ 3 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F A B I O . 

Baldassare. 

G I u L I A . 

Ah! [With an Italian exclamation.] Does that Bal- 
dassare know enough to go in when it rains? . . . 
He cannot serve a customer. 

F A B I o . 

Why d'you say he can't ? I count the loaves and rolls 
before I leave the bakery. See? And when I go back 
I count 'em again, and what is not there, he gives me 

the money for. 

GiuLiA (petulantly). 
I tell you a dog has got more sense than Baldassare. 

F A B I o (placatingly). 
He's got sense enough to give me the money for what 
is not there when I count the loaves. 

G I u L I A . 
Well, I'm glad to know you're satisfied, for I am not, 
the way that man works ; he cannot send up my coal four 
flights and take down our ashes. Half the time I must 
work the rope myself. 

F A B I o (slightly sneering) . 
Oh, why not? You can work a rope in Napoli, and 
you can work an oar, too ; I hear that. And you go out 
on the bay with a street singer. 

G I u L I A , 
[After an exclamation in Italian.] What is the mat- 
ter with you? Is the oven burnt out? What is the 
matter in the cellar ? 

[4] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F A B I O . 

Nothing. Nothing. 

G I u L I A {resentfully). 
Well, I think the oven must be burnt out. Eh ? 

F A B I o , 
Na! Na! Oven's all right. [Sullenly.] Bucefalo's 
gone lame. 

G I u L I A . 
Ah ! Santa Maria ! When did that happen ? How 
will you deHver the bread? Oh! . . . Now we 
cannot go to Central Park next Sunday. Ah ! Those 
rich swells there; they won't miss us — [sadly] — us poor 
people ! 

F A B I o . 
[Sadly.] I give thirty-five dollars for that horse. 

G I U LI A . 

And you got a warrant with him that he is sound. 

F A B I o . 
Well, they do not promise to stay sound forever. 
Eh? 

G I U L I A . 

You must get another horse to deliver the bread, and 
that will cost money and cut down our profit. 

F A B I o . 
[Bringing his hand dozvn on the table.] I make my 
loaves of bread too big. That's the truth. 

G I u L I A . 
Then make 'em smaller. . . . Make 'em smaller. 
[ 5 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F AB I O . 

Na! Na! In Avenue A you cannot sell smaller 
loaves. If I try to sell small loaves, do you know what 
the people will say? Eh? 

Gi U LI A. 
And what will they say? 

Fabio. 
" That damned dago is putting on Sixth Avenue airs." 
And they will get up a Boycott ! You don't know 'em. 

Giu LI A . 
No, and I don't want to . . . But why'd you not 
learn how to read and write? Then you'd know how 
soon you'd get a show shop in Sixth Avenue. 

Fabio. 
What good your readin' and writin' do — eh? You 
know what I did hear la madalena — your big mother — 
say? 

G I U Ll A. 

She said a good many things. 

Fabio. 
She say : " I spend twenty soldi every week to have 
Giulia learn to read and write, and she wants to go marry 
a street singer." 

Giulia. 
Na ! Na ! You never heard her say that. Na ! Na ! 

Fabio. 
[Meaningly.] I did not hear her say it. 
[ 6] 



LITTLE ITALY 

GlU LI A. 

Ah, ha! [With a shrug.] 

F A B I o . 
But she did say that. And I get it straight. She say : 
" I do not have you learn read and write to marry a 
street singer." 

GlU LI A. 

What street singer, eh? 

F AB lo . 
How do I know what street singer? 

Gl U LI A. 

If I Hke a street singer in NapoH, before I am married, 
that is my business ! 

F A B I o . 
And you go on the bay with him. I hear that. 

Gl ULI A. 

And if I go on the bay with some one in Napoli, be- 
fore I am married, that is my business, too ! 

F A B I o . 
Napoli ! Napoli ! Napoli ! Sempre Napoli ! 

G I u n A . 
Si ! Si ! Si ! Si ! You get mad because I do not love 
New York, and you wish that I forget Napoli, eh? Is 
it not? It is better to live in those barracks at home 
than on Sixth Avenue! 

[Fabio laughs derisively, and mutters in Italian.] 
[7] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U L I A . 

Now I tell you this, Fabio Rinaldi, and just listen to 
me : Here is New York ! Gas here better than oil — Si ! 
Here I cook more easy — So! Hot water better than 
cold; and easier to pull things up on the dumb-waiter 
than to break the back to carry 'em. See! But I tell 
you [begins to sob hysterically] I like better even the 
dirt of Napoli than the clean of New York, Ah, Napoli I 
Napoli ! Non ti vedro pii^i. 

[Fabio goes to her, trying to soothe her, and speak- 
ing in Italian.] 

G I U L I A . 

Na! Na! 

[She goes to the dumb-zvaiter; rings the bell; a tin- 
kle is heard below. She calls in a long Italian 
nasal drawl.] 

Baldassare! Hola! Bal-das-sa-re! 

Voice Heard Below. 
Ecco ! Ecco ! Signora Rinaldi ! 

G I u L I A . 
You send me no more coal to-day. . . . Eh? 
You understand? 

[Below.] Si! Si! Capisco, Signora! Si! Si! 

G I U LI A . 
From here to Brooklyn Bridge, he is the biggest fool 
of a janitor. 

Fabio. 
[In an Italian attitude.] Well, what you expect, eh? 
For twelve dollars and seventy-five cents a month rent, 

[ 8 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

for everything, you cannot have a janitor like a Waldorf 
dude, with brass buttons and caprones on his sleeves, like 
that! [Indicating chevrons.] 

[Fabio washes his hands. Giulia begins to gather 
up and zvash the dishes. The beginning of an 
accompaniment on a mandolin is heard and then a 
song, as if sung in the courtyard below. Giulia's 
attention is attracted. She pauses at first, listen- 
ing mechanically. Then startled, listens zvith in- 
terest. Her expression grows soft and tender in 
rapt memories of Italy. Then the expression 
changes, and she hears the song breathlessly. 
Gradually the truth dawns upon her, and she real- 
izes that it sounds like the voice of Michele. Her 
heart almost stops beating. She seems transfixed, 
and trembles. Unseen by Fabio she reaches the 
window and leans far out. Seeing it is Michele 
she remains quite still, as if stunned. Sloivly the 
realisation of Michele's presence bursts upon her. 
She is seised with wild, almost uncontrollable joy. 
The trembling becomes violent, and nearly over- 
comes her. Her impulse is to rush to Michele in 
the courtyard below. Then comes the dull re- 
membrance of Fabio. Gradually regaining her 
composure, it is evident she is considering and> 
planning. She leaves the window. 
[All this time, Fabio, absorbed, has been figuring 
up accounts with the stump of a pencil in an old 
hook which he has taken up after having washed 
his hands. Pause.'[ 

[9] 



LITTLE ITALY 

SONG.* 
(Italian setting by A. Amadeo.) 

Napoli bella^ Iddio col suo sorriso, 

Dono ti fe di cielo azzuro e mar^ 
In terra piu ridente Paradiso 

Mortale che desia, ah non puo trovar! 
Fra il profumo dei fiori e fra I'ebrezza 

Che scende al core fra le tue belta ! 
Fra I'aura^ chi olezza su te dolce citta, 

Volgere il pie vorrei I'esule ancora 
Vagante sconosciuto in straneo suol, 

Senza amor, e senza speme a cui dimora, 
Morte nel core sof ria il viso il duol ! 

Cuna dei sogni miei qui ti sospiro, 
L'anelito nel cor! 

L'azzuro cielo non rivedro ! No ! 
Le belle nubi d'or ! 

Napoli bella ! Ah when, when may I see thee? 

Napoli bella! the turquoise of thy sky. 

City of sunshine where the hours flee in glory, 

Absent from thy scenes of love, am I exiled cruelly. 

Counting the hours that speed so slowly, 

Ere I may hope to turn toward thee, toward thee ; 

Fevered with doubt, a stranger to contentment, 

Aimless I wander, 'mongst faces new and cold, 

Railing at fortune, and the slave of blind resentment, 

When may I thee see again? 

* The music of " Little Italy " has been published by Howley, Havi- 
land & Co., 1260 Broadway, New York. 

[ 10 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

Thy bay and clouds like molten gold, 
Must I aye dwell from thee apart? 
Thou city of my heart! 

G I u L I A {feverishly). 
Fabio ! 

F A B I o . 

{Near window still figuring accounts.] Eh? 

G I U LI A. 

Has that singing man gone ? 

Fabio. 
[Glancing from window.] Not yet. [Song heard 
again.] [Fabio list e^is intently.] Ah, listen! [Pause.] 
Giulia, that is your song. 

Gl ULI A. 

Eh? 

Fab io . 
That is your song! 

Giulia. 
Ah, na, na. You cannot tell " Non ti scordar di me " 
from " Santa Lucia " ! My song I Ha ! Ha ! 

Fabio. 
Certo! Certo! It is your song, Giulia. 

Giulia. 
[Listening, and then as if in great surprise.] Ah ! Si ! 
Si ! Isn't it strange ! That is the song I am always try- 
ing to remember, and that I never can remember. 

[They listen. The song ceases.] 
[ II ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

GiULiA {feverishly). 
It is finished ! Has he gone ? 

F A B I o . 
[Looking out of the ivindow.] Not yet. 

G I u L I A (imperiously). 
O ! Fabio, I want to learn that song. 

F A B I o . 
Diavolo! What an idea! 

G I u LI A . 
I have had that song in my head ever since I left 
NapoH ! 

F A B I o . 
Well ! what of that ? 

Gi U LI A. 

I want to learn that song. I tell you ! 

F A B I o . 
Oh! ridicolo! 

Gi U LI A. 

But I will learn it ! You hear ? 

F A B I o (irritated). 
Pazza! pazza per la musica! 

Gi u L I A . 
Na. Na. I am not crazy about music, but I want 
that song. It has been running through my head since 
five years, and I cannot get it right ! 

F A B I o (gesticulating). 
Am I to get a fellow like that to teach you? Eh? 

[ 12 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

Gl U L I A . 

Si I Si! If he knows it he can teach me. 

F A B I o . 
Where? Where he teach you? Down there in the 
court, eh? 

G I U LI A . 

Na! Na! He teach me here! 

F A B I o . 
I don't know him. I don't want a fellow here I don't 
know. 

G I u L I A. 

Giovinastro! You grow particular. You 'fraid he 
steal the stove there, eh? 

F A B I o . 
Na ! Na ! Not the stove. There are other things. 

G I u L I A . 
[Becoming slightly hysterical as her excitement over- 
powers her.] For five years that song is in my head, 
and for five years I try to get it straight, and I say, " I 
would give five dollars if I can learn that song." And 
now there is the man who can teach me^ and you say, 
" No, I shall not learn." 

F A B I o . 
Well, well, if you take it so hard, I will have him teach 
you. 

G I u L I A . 
Ah ! Ah ! Ah ! That is a good Fabio ! 
[ 13 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F AB I O . 

Oh, yes, yes. A good Fabio enough. . . . Oh, 
yes ! [He calls from windozv.] Vedete ! Ecco ! Ecco ! * 
[Michele's voice from below.] Che vuole?f 

[GiULiA^ hearing Michele's voice, almost faints for 
joy.] 

Fabio. 
Ecco, il suonator ! J 

M I c H el E. 
[From below.] Ha bisogna di me? Eh? § 

Fabio. 
Si! Si! Venite su!|| [Turns to Giulia.] Now, I 
hope you are satisfied. 

Giulia. 
Good Fabio 1 Good Fabio ! . . . Dear Fabio ! 

Fabio. 
[Banteringly, without responding to her caress.] Ah, 
yes, yes. I am a good Fabio when I do all you want. 
Eh? 

[Giulia goes out of the door, looks down the stairs; 
coming back to the room, impatiently says: I do 
not see him ; I do not see him. He is not com- 
ing up. (She moves about the room.) Fabio 
goes out, and looking dozvn the stairs, after a 
pause, calls: Si! Si! Salite su.^ (Re-enters.) 
He is coming up.] 

* Look here ! here ! t What do you want ? 

i See here, Singer ! § D'ye want me, eh ? 

II Yes, yes, come up ! 51 Yes, yes, mount up. 

[ 14 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G lU LI A . 

Ah! [Unnoticed by Fabio she now moves aimlessly 
about the room as if in a panic.] Now, Fabio, you make 
the bargain that he teach me. It is better you make him 
think you want him for Gioja, eh? That is a good 
Fabio! Eh? Let him think he is to teach Gioja, and 
you make a cheap bargain. Yes ! Yes ! Si Amico mio ! 

Fabio. 
What a fuss you make ! 

G I u LI A . 
[Trying to conceal her hysterics.] Oh, I am so glad 
to hear that old song again I I am so glad to hear that 
old song again ! You make the bargain that he teach 
me. You let him think that it is for Gioja, eh? You 
are a good Fabio! I am so glad to hear that old song 
again ! I am so glad. 

[Exit into the closet.] 
[MiCHELE appears at the door — looks in inquiringly. 
He wears a picturesque felt sombrero, corduroy 
breeches, a red waistcoat, and bright green necker- 
chief. His mandolin is slung, and hangs on his 
back.] 

M I c H E L E . 
You wanta me? 

Fabio. 
Si ! Si ! Amico mio ! Si ! Si ! Come in. Come 
in. I call you up here because I want you to teach that 
song to my girl. What do you say, eh ? 

M I c H E L E . 
Ah! Cana your girl singa, eh? 

[ 15 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F A B I O . 

Yes, but — well, I don't know. But she always try to 
sing that song you sing just now. What do you say, 
eh ? Will you teach her ? Sit down ! 

M I c H E LE. 

I can try. Where is she? 

F AB I o . 
What you charge to teach her ? 

M I CH E LE. 

Ah ! I cannot tella. I never givea lessons. 

F A B I o . 
What do you make by the hour? 

M I c H E L E . 
I makea ten cents. Sometimes twenty-fivea. Some- 
times feefty cents an hour. I make a dollar in forty- 
ninea streeta in half a minute t'other day. 

F A B I o . 
Well, I give you twenty-five cents, and you give me 
one hour time, for two^ three days. 

M I CH E LE . 

Si ! Si ! I give you the hour that way — tree, for tree 
days. Eh ? Thata make seventy-fivea cents ! 

F A B I o . 
Yes! That is, you teach her your song on the man- 
dolin ? 

M I c H E L E . 
Si ! Si ! That's alia right ! Where is your girl ? 
[ i6 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

F A B I O . 

I will ask her. [Goes to closet door.] Hola! Hola! 

Giulia ! 

G I U LI A . 

[From within.] Si! Si! Subito, Subito ! * 

F A B I o . 
You come now. You hear? I have fix for your les- 
son. [Fabio takes a pan of food from the window, then 
calling again.] Giulia! 

Giulia. 
You go with the supper. I come. 

Fabio. 
All right! A rivederla, Signore! 

[Exit Fabio.] 

[When the door has closed on Fabio, Giulia, in her 
best gown and head-dress, emerges cautiously 
from the closet. She regards Michele with as- 
tonishment, then with delight, rushes into his arms 
uttering a scream followed by " Ohs " of wel- 
come. In a moment the door opens quickly. 
Giulia has just fled suddenly from the arms of 
Michele while putting a finger to her lips to se- 
cure his silence.] 

Fabio. 
[Entering, looks inquiringly and doubtingly at 
Michele.] 
What was that cry? 

* Yes, yes, right away ! 
[ 17] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U LI A. 

Oh, my! Oh, my! Oh, my . . . finger. 

F A B I o . 
Why, what's the matter with your finger? 

G I U LI A . 
I pinched it in that drawer. It hurts. 

[She puts her little finger in her mouth and pretends 
to suffer.^ 

F A B I o . 
Hurt much, eh? 

Gi u L I A. 

Very! {Taking it out of her mouth to speak.] 

F A B I o . 
Poverina ! Here, let me see ! 

Gi U LI A. 

Oh, it don't show. [She holds up her linger.] 

F A B I o . 
I don't see nothing. 

Gi u LI A . 

No; there's nothing to see — not yet. Maybe later. 

F A B I o . 
You think it get black, eh ? Look here! [He takes a 
large red handkerchief from his pocket and folds it 
lengthwise, then zvraps the finger until it is as big as her 
fist.] Now, now you feel better. Eh? But, Diavolo! 
How are you going to learn to play mandolin? You 
can play hand-organ without fingers. Ma ! Ma ! Cos- 

[ i8 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

petto ! You need fingers to play mandolin. [Chuckling.] 
[He looks at Michele, who replies by an approving nod.] 
Eh ! Eh ! Suonator ? 

Gi U LI A . 
Oh! I'm all right. It's better already. Say! I 
don't use little finger to play mandolin. Na ! Na ! All 
right ! You go to your oven. 

[Fabio satisfied, after looking from Michele to 
GiuLiA, makes his exit. When the door closes 
there is a pantomime expressive of their lucky es- 
cape; then they doubt whether Fabio suspects. 
Giulia goes out on the landing to make sure, and 
returns radiant, shoiving that Fabio has descended 
the stairs, when, with a sneer, she quickly uncoils 
the handkerchief and tosses it in the air.] 

Michele. 
[In a whisper.] Who is he ? 

Giulia. 
[In a whisper.] My husband. 

Michele. 
Ah! You got a husband? 

Giulia. 
Si! 

Michele. 

Ah ! And you promise to waita for me ! 

[He sinks on a chair in a rage which he betrays in 
the passionate manner of the simple, ignorant 
Italian.] 

[ 19] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U LI A . 

I could not! I could not! It must be that I marry 
Fabio Rinaldi^ or be turned into the street. 

M I CH E LE . 

[Springing up in ill-suppressed fury.] That greata 
biga devil — your mother ! 

G I u L I A (acting the incident). 
She wait for me behind the door three hours that night 
we stay out so late upon the bay ; and when I come in 
she draw out a corset-bone and she beat me with a corset- 
bone, and I stay in bed a week, and she say : " You thank 
Santa Lucia I do not break every rib in your body, eh? 
for you think I give twenty soldi every week for your 
school for you to go marry a street singer, eh ? " . . . 
She then make me marry Fabio Rinaldi. [Pause.] 

M I c H E L E . 
Is he rich man ? 

G I u LI A. 
Na ! Does it look rich here ? 

M I C H ELE. 

Whata his business^ eh ? 

G I u L I A . 
Baker, baker. In the basement. 

M I c H E L E . 
I pass it manya time. [Stupefied.] So you married! 
So you married ! [Suddenly he seizes her and demands, 
with a cry.] Why you geta married, eh? Why you 
geta married^ eh ? Telia me ! 

[ 20] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U L I A . 

Tell you what, eh? What do you think? That I 
could go off with you then and get married like that! 
[Snapping her fingers.] Any madre do the same. You 
did have no money. You did play. You did sing, and 
you did not work, and you then made nothing ! 

M I C H ELE. 

You know why, eh ? You not know why ? [He takes 
her in his arms.] 

G I U LI A. 

Nal 

M I C H E L E . 

Because I did love you. 

G I u L I A . 
You did love me, and you go way from Napoli. What 
made you go way? You did not come back. Who 
made you go way from me? 

M I C H ELE. 

I hada no money. ... I could not singa then like 
I singa now. I could not starva ! . . . Your mother 
she say to me, " You come round Giulia, and, Madre di 
Dio, I put a knifea into you ! " 

G I u L I A {ruminating) . 
And she was the woman to do it, lo credo. . , » 
But when did you come to New York ? 

M I c H E L E . 
When I comea? I comea six months ago. ... I 
looka for you near five year in Italy. I say " She is 

[ 21 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

somewhere in Italy." I go to Roma, to Firenze, to 
Geneva. I finda you nowhere. . . . Whena you 
comea to New York^ eh? 

G I u L I A . 
I come five years ago with Fabio and . . . baby. 

M I c H E L E . 
Baby ! Diavolo ! Baby ! 

G I u L I A . 
Na ! Na ! Not my baby — Fabio's. 

M I CH ELE. 

Ah ! So ! He was marry before ? 

G I U LI A . 
Si ! His first wife died. He had a Httle girl. 

M I c H E LE . 
Ah ! That is better ! 

Gl U L I A . 

Better! Why, what do you mean? [Pause.] 

M I c H E L E . 
[Slowly.] You havea no child. You can comea with 
me! 

G I u L I A . 
You want me to leave Fabio and Gioja? 

M I c H E L E . 
Si! You comea with me! 

G I u L I A . 
He is good to me, and I love Gioja! 

[ 22 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

M I C H E L E . 

So ! So ! You love a baby better than you love me ! 

G I U LI A . 
Na ! Na ! But I get used to it here. It is my home. 
I love Gioja. She is good. I do my work. I try to for- 
get. I try to give you up. Oh! I try — until to-day, I 
hear you sing. And then I remember Napoli and that 
night when we are in the boat, and the moon was setting, 
and you take me far, far out — the grotto way — and the 
air is still, and the water so smooth, so soft, so silent. 
And Vesuve — the smoke rising, rising higher, higher, 
like a thread, and then it spread like that. [Descriptive 
pantomime.] And O — I forget everything when I hear 
you sing! You see, I am crazy to see you again ! [Then 
in Italian.] I love you, Michele ! I love you! I forget 
everything but that I love you, and that you are here, 
here, here with me. Michele, I love you ! I love you ! 
I love you ! [She is in his arms.] 

Michele, 
Si ! Si ! You lovea me, and you remember what you 
say thata night ? 

G I u L I A . 
[Cajolingly.] Na! Na! 

Michele. 
[Slowly.] You say: "Michele, I thinka you will do 
greata things. You will be likea thata other greata 
Italian — Bonaparte ! " 

G I u l I A . 
Did I say that, Michele ? 

[ 23 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

M I C H E LE . 

Si! You say that in Napoli, and you go marry a 
baker. 

Gl U L I A . 

I could not help it — I tell you. 

M I CH ELE. 

Finea words ! Finea words ! 

G I U LI A . 
It was La Madalena who said I shall not marry a street 
musician. 

M I c H E L E . 
[Seeing that he is gaining an influence over her.] A 
streeta musician! Eh? A streeta musician! II Trova- 
tore was a streeta musician. [Caressingly.] 

G I u L I A . 
[Gradually yielding to his influence.] I love you, 
Michele ! 

M I c H E L E . 
Carissima ! You comea with me ! 

Gi U LI A . 
[Faintly.] O! stay here! 

Michele. 
Staya here, and see you with another man? 

G I u L I A . 
Oh, do not go. 

Michele (flrmly). 
Yes, I will go, and you will go with me. 
[ 24 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U L I A. 

Oh ! How can I ? 

M I C H E L E . 

Do you wanta to stay here and die ? Or do you wanta 
go with me? To NapoH. Think of the bay — and our 
boats — the bluea sky — the music and the moonhght! 
Thinka ! Thinka ! 

G I u LI A . 

Na ! Na ! I cannot think ! It makes me wild ! wild ! 

M I c H E LE. 
Cornea with me ! 

G I u L I A . 
And Gioja! 

M I C H E L E . 

You can steala yourself, but you cannot steala another 
man's child. Comea ! Si ! Si ! Cornea ! 

G I u L I A . 
Yes ! Yes ! I will see her. I will kiss her for good- 
by. . . . Then maybe I go . . . with you . . . 
Gioja ! Gioja ! 

[Exit into closet. Pause. Giulia re-enters.] 

M I c H E L E . 
[She is irresolute.] See ! See ! I have plenty money ! 
[Takes bag of money from his trousers pistol pocket.] 
I makea money. [Slozvly.] I saya " I finda Giulia. 
She's in New York. I keepa these gold pieces till I finda 
her. I look all over Easta Side, but I find her. See! 
Looka! Golda! See here! [Hurriedly.] We buy 

[ 25 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

ticket to Geneva, eh? We go by steamer. To-night! 
To-night! [She shudders.] He never catcha you. 
Never! No! He 'fraida! We go to Napoli. To Na- 
poli. I sing in opera. [She looks inquiringly.] You 
saya No? I saya Yes! They wanta me there. Ol 
Giulia, I am here because I love you so. [Pause.] 

G I U LI A. 

They will say I am a bad woman. 

M I c H E L E . 
Who will say? 

Gi u L I A. 
[Vehemently.] Everybody. 

M I c H E L E . 
Cospetto ! Who will knowa you ? 

Gi u L I A. 
In Napoli ! 

M I c H E L E . 
Che ! Che ! Che ! 

Gi u LI A. 
Fabio ! What will he do ? 

M I c H E L E . 
He pay ten dollar. He get a divorcea. 

Giulia. 
He will come after me! 

M I c H E l E . 
Na ! He staya here to make his bread. He saya, let 
her go ! Woman plenty ! 

[ 26] 



LITTLE ITALY 

Gl U LI A. 

Oh ! I am afraid. 

M I c H E L E . 
Ah ! You wanta staya here ? 

Gi U LI A . 
No! No! [Whispers.] I want to go with you! 

M I C H ELE. 

Cornea ! 

Gi U LI A. 

The people in Napoli will mob me I 

M I c H E LE. 

Na! Na! You 'fraida, eh? . . . Now, now, 
Giulia, see ! Listen. I tell you this : We go to Napoli. 
IVe saya we married. Then they saya, Whata you do 
with Fabio Rinaldi? We say. Go see! . . . Giulia, 
I tella you we have plenty money. People see we have 
money ; then ev'rybody say " All right ! " No be af raida ! 
Yes, money makea all right ! 

[Giulia begins to move about, putting up her things 
— packing them in an old bag.] 

M I C H E L E . 

Maybe we better sing a little. Rinaldi thinka we very 
quiet for a music lesson^ eh ? What you do now ? 

Giulia. 
[Who is writing on a half -sheet of paper, zvhich she 
has found in the drawer of the dresser.] I must tell 
Fabio ! 

[ 27 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

M I C H E L E . 

You ah ! You tella Fabio, and he tella the cops ! 

G I U LI A . 
Na! Na! Fabio cannot read. It will take him an 
hour to make it out. {She zvrites, spelling out the letters 
continuously, the audience not making out the words.] I 
want him to take good care of Gioja. [She pins the 
sheet of paper to the door R. C] 

[MiCHELE takes the bag, goes to the window, and 
looks out into the court below.] 

M I c H E L E . 
[Starting back.] Corpo di bacco! There is Rinaldi 
in the courta ! He is coming upa ! 

Gi u L I A . 
Ah ! [She has opened door R. C] 

M I c H E LE . 
We go upstairs to the nexta floor. When he come in 
here, he shuta that door; then we go downa quick — un- 
derstand! Down the stairs, eh? 

G I u L I A . 
Na! Na! You go down by yourself. I go down 
this way! [She opens dumb-ivaiter door.] 

M I c H E L E . 
Is it safe ? It won't breaka with you ? Eh ? 

G I U LI A . 
Na ! It carry two hundred pounds coal easy I 
[ 28 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

Ml CH ELE. 

Senza dubio? 

GlULI A. 

Si ! Si ! Senza dubio. 

M I CH ELE. 

I don't like that ! 

GlU LI A. 

Meet me at the butcher shop. 

Mi CH ELE. 

Eh? 

Gl U L I A. 

At the butcher shop ! At the corner. 

M I CH ELE. 

Si! Si! 

Gl U LI A. 

Quick ! Quick ! Give me the bag. I better take it. 
Yes. Quick! Quick! At the butcher shop at the 

corner. 

[MiCHELE gives her the bag. She enters the dumb- 
waiter, and descends in sight of the aiidience. 
MicHELE closes the door of the dumb-waiter and 
cautiously makes his exit by the door R. C, which 
he closes behind him. The stage is empty,^ and 
the rope is heard to creak regularly, until inter- 
rupted by a scream and a distant crash. Pause.] 

[Enter Fabio. He has a pan of food which he holds 
with a towel at the handles. He pauses at the door see- 
ing the room empty. Carrying the pan he goes softly to 
the door of the closet, opens it carefully, and calls softly.] 

[ 29 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

Giulia! (Pause.) [Still carrying the pan, he goes out 
door R. C, and stands in the hall and calls.] Giulia! 
[Pause. The audience hears Fabio walk along the hall 
and knock at a door. A voice calls to him in Italian, and 
he is heard to ask:] 

Fabio. 
Is Signora Rinaldi there, Signora? 

Voice. 

[A woman's voice replies.] No, Signer, she is not 
here. 

Fabio. 

[Again calling in the hallway.] Giulia. [Louder.] 
Giulia! [Pause. He comes back into the room, still 
carrying the pan, and shuts the door.] Where did she 
go? [Puts pan on the stove then. He opens the door 
of the closet softly. Sees that Gioja is awake.] Ah, 
Gioja! You wake, eh? You well, eh? 

Gioja. 
[Outside.] Si ! Si ! Papa. Si ! Si ! Ma dove 
mamma — dove mamma? 

Fabio. 
I don't know, bambina. She gone out. She soon 
come back. I go see where she go. [He starts to exit 
R. C. Sees paper pinned on door. Takes it down. 
Tries to read it. Puzzled.] Stupido! Imbecille! Even 
my baby knows her letters, and I cannot read. [Exit 
into closet, and is heard to say:] Qui, Qui, Bambina! 
You come read this little note for old papa, eh? [Re- 
enter carrying Gioja, zvho is in her night-gown.] 

[ 30 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

GlO J A. 

Yes, papa, 

F A B I o {playfully) . 
You no more sick? 

Gig J A. 
No, caro papa, 

F A B I o . 
That's good! That's good! No more green apples, 
eh ? Na I Na ! You come read this httle note for papa. 
Eh ? [He sits and takes Gioja on his lap. Gioja spells 
out to herself, and reads the words of the note.] I 
. . . do . , . not . . , love . . . you, . . , Fabio. . . . 
I . . . never . . . have . . . love . . . you. ... I ... go 
. , . away. . . . I . . . never . . . come . . . back. . . . 
Take . . , good . , . care . . . dear . . . little . . . Gio- 
ja. . . . Giulia . . . Rinaldi. [Pause. Fabio muses as 
the reading begins. Quickly his sorrozv breaks forth in 
groans, and then he starts as if stabbed at every word. 
When the reading ends, he carries Gioja to the closet. 
He exits into it with her, then re-enters, and speaks back 
into the closet.] You lay down there little while. Papa 
come back soon. That's a good little girl. [He goes C. 
and picks up note.] I do not love you, Fabio. I never 
have love you. [Long pause with business indicative of 
his growing fury.] I do not love you, Fabio. [Then 
with a wild cry.] Ma! Maledetto suonator! Avro il 
sangue del suo cuore ! * 

[With sudden energy and rapidity he takes off his 
baker's apron and gets out his coat and hat. He 

* Cursed Singer ! I will have his heart's blood. 
[ 31 ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

mutters to himself rapidly. A clamor of voices is 
heard. Fabio docs not seem to hear it. At first 
distant, it gradually grows louder and nearer. 
Men and women are now heard outside chatter- 
ing and exclaiming in great excitement, and a 
mingling of Italian and English. The crowd is 
noisily swelling up the stairway. Voices are also 
heard in the court. Several women are heard to 
scream. Fabio does not hear. He continues to 
talk to himself as he makes ready to go out. He 
starts tozvards door R. C. The door is hurst open. 
The hall is seen to he crowded with Italians. The 
panic, the confusion, and the excitement must all 
he Urmly suggested, hut not ohtruded. Michele 
enters, carrying the nearly lifeless body of Giulia. 
Business. Michele and Fabio place Giulia on 
the hcd. Fabio pushes out the Italians who would 
force their way into the room. He holts the door. 
The men regard each other.] 

Michele. 

[Points to the dumh-waiter.] She went downa that 
way! 

[Fabio goes to the dumh-waiter and opens it. The 
audience sees the frayed end of the dangling 
broken rope.] 

Fabio (zvith a yell). 
Che! 

[The men regard Giulia tearfully.] 
[ 32] 



LITTLE ITALY 

G I U L I A. 

I . . . never . . . see . . . Napoli. . . , Oime! . . . 
Oime! [Screams in agony.] Gioja! Gioja! Ah! 
[As she murmurs, screams, and calls.] Poor me! Poor 
me ! I cannot see ! . . . Fabio ! [Pause while dying 
scene is acted.] 

M I C H E L E . 

. She dying ! She dying ! 

[Giulia's voice has grown inaudible.] 

Fabio. 
[Rushing to windozv and calling.] Baldassare! Bal- 
dassare ! 

[The murmur of voices has been heard throughout 
the scene, moderated so as not to detract from the 
action. Many voices from the court.] 

Voices. 
Si! Si! Si! Signore! 

Fabio. 
[At the window.] Chima subito! Subito, un padre 
confessare la mia moglie ! * 

Voices. 
Si ! Si ! Si ! Signore ! 

[Fabio hastens aimlessly about the room, then takes 
the two candles from the dresser, lights them and 
puts them on each side of the head of the bed. 
He then unhooks a crucifix of black wood from 
the wall, zvhich he places upon the breast of 

* Call quick, quick, a priest to confess my wife. 

[ Z2> ] 



LITTLE ITALY 

GiULiA, who is now lying dead. He takes his 
rosary and kneels by the head of the bed.] 

F A B 10. 

O, Giulia ! O, Dio ! Dio ! Dio ! 

[MicHELE shows his grief. His hands before his 
eyes. Fabio raises his head. Seeing Michele, 
Fabio rise's, goes to the dresser, and takes out a 
long carving-knife. He steals revengefully tow- 
ard Michele, who catches Fabio's right arm as 
it is raised aloft to stab. They wrestle.] 

Michele. 
Hah! Whata you do? Eh? You wanta killa me? 
One dead ! One not enougha. Eh ? 

[Hearing the fight, the people in the hall call out 
and try to force open the door, but do not succeed. 
Fabio and Michele part. Michele tries to es- 
cape, and seizes a poker as Fabio makes a second 
onslaught. The people beat on the door and 

shout.] 

Michele. 

You wanta to killa me. Eh ? You want to go to Sing 

a Sing? You wanta sit in that 'lectricala chaira! Eh? 

. . . Who take care little Gioja then? Who? Who? 

[Fabio drops his knife, and staggers to a seat to 

bury his face in his hands.] 

Gioja. 

[Entering from closet, weeping.] Mamma! Mamma! 

CURTAIN. 
[ 34] 



APPENDIX 



APPENDIX 




The Preface to "Un Pere Prodigue" 
by Alexandre Dumas, fils. 

O-DAY, if you have no objection, 
we will talk shop, and we should 
concede to the business of the 
theatre its proper share — the share 
so prominent that at times it passes 
for being the whole of it. 

Of all the different palpable 
forms of thought the theatre most 
nearly approaches the plastic arts. No man should 
engage in it without knowing its material processes, for 
there is this difference: in the other arts he learns the 
processes, but in the theatre they must be found out, or, 
to state it exactly, he must be endowed with them by 
nature. 

One may become a painter, sculptor, or even a musi- 
cian, by dint of study, but not a dramatic author. He is 
so at the first, or never, even as he is blond or black, 
without his volition. 

It is a caprice of nature to have constructed your eye 
of a peculiar style, in order that you might see in a 

[ Z7 ] 



APPENDIX 

certain way that which is not absolutely the truth, but 
which, however, ought to appear only so for the moment 
to those whom you wish might see what you have seen. 
He who essays to write for the stage reveals at his first 
attempt this rare faculty of seeing and showing, be it 
in a college farce or a parlor charade. It is a science of 
optics and perspective that enables the sketching of a 
personage, a character, a passion, an action of the soul, 
with a single stroke of the pen. The trompe I'oeil is so 
complete that it happens often that the spectator, who 
has turned reader and wants to feel again and alone the 
emotion which moved him with the crowd, fails not only 
to discover this emotion in the written thing, but the 
place where it occurs. It was a word, a look, a gesture, 
a silence, or a combination purely atmospheric, had held 
him under its spell. It is that something which is the 
genius of the business, if these two words can go together. 
We could compare the work of the theatre, in its relation 
to other literary forms, with ceiling painting as related 
to mural, or to easel pictures. Heaven help the painter 
if he forgets that his work is to be seen aloft, and 
viewed at a distance from below and lighted from under- 
neath. 

A man of little value as a thinker, moralist, philoso- 
pher, or writer, can still be a man of the first order as a 
dramatic author; that is to say, as a setter-in-motion of 
movements purely outside of man. Yet, on the other 
hand, to be, for the drama, a thinker, moralist, philos- 
opher, or a writer who is heard, it is indispensably nec- 
essary to be gifted with these particular and natural 

[ 38] 



APPENDIX 

qualities of the man of little value. In short, to be a 
master in this art, it is necessary to be an expert in the 
business. 

If one can never reveal these natural qualities to those 
who do not possess them, nothing is easier than to recog- 
nize and develop them in whoever has them. 

The first of these qualities, the most indispensable, that 
which dominates and governs, is the logic which com- 
prehends good sense and clarity. Truth therein may be 
absolute or relative, according to the importance of the 
subject or the place it occupies; the logic should be 
implacable between the point of departure and the des- 
tination, in order that it shall never be lost to view in 
either the development of the idea or the fact. It is 
needful, besides, to project it continually under the spec- 
tators' eyes from the side of the person or of the thing 
for or against which one's plot would culminate. Then 
the science of the minor parts is to be considered; that is 
to say, of the blacks or shadows — the oppositions, in a 
word — which establish the equilibrium., the ensemble, the 
harmony; then the brevity, the rapidity, must be provided 
for, which does not allow him who listens to be diverted 
or to reflect, even to take a long breath or to debate within 
himself with the author; then the knowledge of the plans, 
which does not let slip to the background the figure which 
should be kept in the light, nor advance into the light the 
half-tint figures; then that progression — mathematical, 
inexorable, fatalistic — which multiplies scene upon scene, 
event upon event, act upon act, unto the denouement, 
which ought to be the sum and the proof, indeed, the 

[39] 



APPENDIX 

exact notion of our limitations, which forbids us to make 
our picture bigger than its frame ; for the dramatist, who 
has the most to say, must say it all from eight o'clock 
until midnight, one hour of the time to be deducted for 
the entre-actes and the relief of the spectator. 

I have not spoken of imagination, because it is the 
stage that, outside of the author, supplies it in the inter- 
pretation, through scenery and accessories, while it puts 
into flesh and blood and into words and images before 
the spectator the people, places, and things which he 
would be obliged to imagine, if he were in front of a book. 
Nor have I spoken of invention, for the excellent reason 
that invention does not exist for us. We have nothing to 
invent. We have only to look and remember, to feel, to 
co-ordinate and give back, under a special form, that 
which all the spectators should immediately remember to 
have felt or witnessed, without being able to give an 
account till that time. The reality at the bottom, the 
possible in the deed, the ingenuity in the medium; these 
are all that can be asked of us. 

The dramatic art which requires a business by itself, 
ought it to have also a style by itself? Yes. One is 
never a dramatic author completely unless he has a 
manner of writing, like a manner of seeing, strictly per- 
sonal. A dramatic work ought always to be written as 
if it were only to be read. A performance is only a read- 
ing by several persons for those who do not wish, or who 
do not know, how to read. It is through those who go 
to the theatre that the piece succeeds, and through those 
who do not go that it is confirmed. The spectator gives 

[40] 



APPENDIX 

it notoriety, the reader confers upon it fame. The play 
that one does not desire to read without having seen, 
nor to re-read after having read, is dead, even had it two 
thousand successive representations. Only it is necessary, 
in order that the work shall live without the aid of the 
interpreter, that the style of the author shall be equal to 
the transporting to the eyes of the reader the solidities, 
proportions, forms, and tones that audiences would ap- 
plaud. The language of the greatest authors is merely 
for the dramatic author so many suggestions; it teaches 
him only words, and, besides, there is that host of words 
that he should exclude from the body of his vocabulary, 
because they are deficient in relief, vigor, bonhomie — 
I would even say deficient in the triviality needed for this 
action of the true man on this false ground. 

The vocabulary of Moliere, for example, is the most 
limited; he uses always the same expressions; he plays 
the whole human soul upon five and a half octaves. 

The language of books ; that is to say, of the thought 
presented directly to the reader, may be fixed once for all. 
Whoever writes a narrative, nay, even a dialogue destined 
for a single reading, may appropriate the form of a master 
of the same kind of literature as his own — say of Bossuet, 
Voltaire, Pascal, Jean Jacques, Sand, Hugo, Lamartine, 
Renan, Theophile Gautier, Sainte Beuve, Flaubert — only 
no one would want it of him, and no one would take 
kindly to such homage to tradition and purity. The 
origin, however, might not be recognized, and one might 
feel him to be a writer and proclaim him as such. He 
would be that, indeed, if even his pure and elegant style 

[ 41 ] 



APPENDIX 

did not contain one new idea, for we see every day the 
spectacle — form making us believe there is depth beneath 
it. 

In the drama there must be nothing of the kind. The 
moment we follow the language of one of our masters 
we are no longer reverent disciples, but insupportable 
copyists. What we may take from the masters in this art 
is their way of seeing things, and not their manner of 
expression. Each one has his factory stamp, which 
nobody can copy without becoming a counterfeiter. Read 
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Marivaux, Beaumarchais, for 
we hold to these dead, and note the differences — how 
each of them has poured his own particular alcohol 
into this running stream that goes by the name of 
language. 

This language of the theatre, does it need to be cor- 
rect? No; not in the grammatical sense. It is necessary 
though, before everything, that it should be clear, colored, 
penetrating, incisive. 

Je t'aimais inconstant; qu'aurais-je fait fidelef is an 
abominable fault of grammar that the verse did not 
require. If, however, it had been needed to paint the same 
sentiment in prose, Racine, who knew his business, would 
have presented it with the same inaccuracy. There are 
turns of phrases and of words which of themselves have 
a flash, a sonority, a sense which make of them necessities, 
showing that they must be admitted at the risk of com- 
promising the text. Thus the old academic writers, 
comprehending nothing of our form, treated us in advance 
as barbarians. It was the misunderstanding arising be- 

[42 ] 



APPENDIX 

tween the two manners which caused La Bruyere to utter 
this absurd truth: " MoHere only needed to have avoided 
jargon and to write purely." 

Fenelon thought and taught like La Bruyere in speak- 
ing of our file leader, Moliere. La Bruyere was right, and 
he was also wrong; that is why I have allowed myself 
this expression, " absurd truth," in citing the opinion of 
an author that I revere more than any, who consolidated 
the language of books, who has inundated the world with 
truths that he was incapable of expressing from the stage, 
because there he would have engraved in hollows where 
he should have sculptured in relief. 

[The author here cites examples from Moliere to prove 
his defective grammar, which are omitted by the trans- 
lator.— H. B. F.] 

These inaccuracies, so shocking when read, not only 
pass unnoticed on the stage, in the intonation of the actor 
and the movement of the play, but, furthermore, they will 
give life sometimes to the ensemble somehow; like lit- 
tle eyes, a big nose, a wide mouth, or tousled hair, will 
confer more grace, or character, or passion to a head 
than would Greek regularity, which has been made the 
dominant type of beauty because it is necessary to estab- 
lish in an art a fixed ideal; after which every author may 
go his own way with his own temperament, and upset 
tradition if he is strong enough to do it. It is thus that 
schools are founded and men dispute, which is not a bad 
way to kill time, for it has its longueurs, as we say at the 
theatre. 

" Now, if we turn from incorrect grammar to inaccu- 

[43 ] 



APPENDIX 

racy of another sort, perhaps the style of M. Scribe, for 
example, would satisfy you?" 

" Certainly, if the style of M. Scribe covers a thought. 
Of what odds is the material of the gown if the woman 
is beautiful? " 

" It is through his form, then, you tell me, that M. 
Scribe fails." 

That is an error. It is never through the form that one 
fails, but through the depths. Translations are the proofs 
of what I claim. Every day we admire through transla- 
tions foreign writers, who have no reason to envy the style 
of M. Scribe, because the thought being strong and solid, 
it rises to view athwart this form, colorless and soft, even 
as high mountains pierce through the mists of the morn- 
ing. Think like Eschylus and write like M. Scribe, then 
no one will ask of you more. Unfortunately, or fortu- 
nately rather, this discordance is impossible. The ex- 
pression will be always, in spite of yourself, at the level of 
the thought; exact and firm if the thought is elevated, 
feeble and bombastic if the thought is vulgar. Elevation 
and sincerity are wanting in M. Scribe, for from him such 
expression does not come; being unconvinced, he cannot 
be eloquent. A valueless wine, a cheap bottle. Besides, 
he is not looking for comedy, he is only looking for the 
theatre; he does not wish to instruct nor moralize, nor 
correct people, he wants to amuse them; he does not 
seek glory which immortalizes death, but rests contented 
with the success that popularizes the living, and with that 
fecundity that brings wealth. Prestidigitator of the first 
order, exhibitor of conjuring boxes, he shows you a situ- 

iL.tfC. 



APPENDIX 

ation, like a nutmeg, makes it pass ; now you must laugh, 
now weep, now scared, now it's cats, now dog, through 
two, three, or five acts — and you will find it out in the 
denouement. It was always the same with him; there was 
nothing to say. The prose with which he accompanied 
these tricks of pass-pass were uttered for the purpose of 
misleading, of watching his audience, and of gaining time 
for the promised effect — the moment for the nutmeg to 
become a .48 bullet and return just the same into the 
juggler's box. 

The seance over, the candles extinguished, the nutmegs 
restored to their trick-bag, the boxes returned to their 
nest — one inside another — the cat and the dog put to bed, 
the voices silent, the epigrams flown, there remain in the 
spirit or soul of the spectator neither idea, reflection, en- 
thusiasm, hope ; neither remorse, agitation, nor happiness. 
The auditor has looked, listened, and been puzzled; he 
has laughed, cried, and has passed the evening. He has 
been amused, which is a good deal, but he has learned 
nothing. He mentions to somebody something or other, 
perhaps, but has not thought enough about it to make 
it a subject of conversation. In short, M. Scribe has all 
the qualities which denote talent, but not one of those that 
proclaim genius. Three times his figures have taken on 
the appearance, not of real life, however, but of the heroic. 
These were when Meyerbeer lent his sovereign breath. 
But only once has he half opened the door of the temple 
and surprised the mysteries of the Good Goddess. He 
reached high comedy in putting forth his " Camarade- 
rie," in doing which he had as much reason to praise as to 

[45 ] 



APPENDIX 

blame himself. He proved therein that he might have 
become one of the race of observers, and, by devoting 
himself more and craving riches less, and by revering art, 
he might have been a great man. He did not wish it; 
may his wish be gratified. 

Nevertheless, the stage owes him for an innovation 
altogether unexpected, which proves exactly the poetic 
measure of this author. Until he came, love, and mar- 
riage with the loved one, had been the final reward of the 
hero of comedy. The poets represented the heroine as 
beautiful, chaste, passionate; in a word, as interestingly as 
possible. M. Scribe thought he ought to add to these 
qualities a charm of the first class, from his point of view. 
So he added the three per cents — no happiness being 
probable in marriage, which crowns everything, if the 
young girl does not bring a big dot to the young man. 
And this was so exactly the ideal of the public to which 
M. Scribe addressed himself that it promptly recognized 
him as its spokesman. Therefore, during the third of a 
century, as the high priest of this bourgeoise religion, he 
said mass every evening at the altar of the nimble six- 
pence, turning around from time to time in the middle 
of the ceremony to say to his flock, his hand on his 
gospel : Ego vohisciim. 

Collaborators, pupils, imitators, and speculators have 
not been wanting to carry on this work, so facile, agree- 
able, and remunerative, while all the time that it violates 
public taste and leads serious art astray. Scribe thus 
worked in our sociology. Unfortunately, the master wore 
us out, and so we finished, weary of his colonels, the women 

[ 46] 



APPENDIX 

widows, the pensionnaires so rich that their dots were 
hunted Hke a chase, his artists supported by bankers' 
wives, the croix d'honneur folk dabbHng in adultery, the 
powerful millionaires, and the shop-girls who were making 
queens walk as they wished. The need was felt of hearing 
some common sense, something that might light up, en- 
courage, and console the human species, which is neither 
so egotistic nor so stupid as M. Scribe shows it. A robust 
soul, loyal and pure, appeared, and " Gabrielle," with its 
simple and touching action, with its beautiful and noble 
language, was the first revolt against this theatre of con- 
vention. The husband, intelligent, paternal, lyrical, w.as 
exalted upon the same stage where he had been laughed 
at for more than twenty years and always made ridiculous, 
as always blind and always deceived by an amorous wife. 

" Why this side issue about M. Scribe? " you will ask 
me. " For what purpose is this attack?" 

I do not attack M. Scribe; nor do I beat any big drum 
before my own barrack to seduce you from entering my 
neighbor's; but, given this question of business, I study 
and explain the man who is the incarnation of it, and has 
pushed his trick so far that, as I have said above, people 
sometimes have mistaken it for the art itself. No one has 
ever known better than M. Scribe — without conviction, 
without naivete, without philosophic purpose — how to put 
into action and meaning, if not a character nor an idea, 
at least a subject, or a situation especially, and evoke from 
it logically scenic eflfects. No one knew better than Scribe 
at the first encounter how to assimilate the thought of the 
first comer, how to adapt it to the stage — oftentimes in the 

[47 ] 



APPENDIX 

proportions and in a sense totally opposed to the com- 
binations of the first author — utilizing all, from the dis- 
positions, the debut, the name, the beauty, the ugliness, 
the fatness, the leanness, the arms, the feet, the looks, the 
color of the hair, the elegance, the stupidity, the wit of the 
comedians — even up to the tastes, passions, prejudices, 
hypocrisies, yea, to the cowardice of the public that he 
addressed and from which he gained his fortune and his 
liberty. He is the most extraordinary improvisor we have 
had for the theatre; the one who knew best how to set 
going the personages that did not exist. He is the Shake- 
speare of Chinese shadows. 

Well, into that collection of four hundred pieces that he 
wrote, alone or in collaboration, let drop " II ne faut jurer 
de rien," or " Le Caprice," or ** II faut qu'une porte soit 
ouverte ou fermee " (these were the little comediettas 
of a poet who was the most artless, the least expert at the 
business) and you will see all the Theatre Scribe dissolve 
and volatilize, like mercury in a heat of three hundred and 
fifty degrees ; for the reason that Scribe worked for the 
public without putting into his work anything of his heart 
or soul, while De Musset wrote with both heart and soul 
for the soul and heart of humanity. Hence sincerity en- 
dowed him, without even his suspecting it, with all the 
resources of the business which constituted the only merit 
of the other. 

Now the conclusion? 

It is, that the dramatic author who shall know man as 
did Balzac and the stage as did Scribe will be the greatest 
dramatic author that ever lived. 

May, 1868. 

[48] 



APPENDIX 



PRESS NOTICES 

From " The Stage in America, 1897-1899," by Norman Hapgood. 

" Of the three recent American attempts to make a fatal end ac. 
ceptable, only one has the consistency from the beginning which Robert 
Louis Stevenson demands. ' Barbara Frietchie ' and ' Nathan Hale ' 
have first acts of frivolous comedy, and waver between melodrama, 
tragedy, and comedy throughout; so that they can only be called tragic 
for want of a better caption. The third and only true tragedy is in 
one act. It is by a wholly unknown writer, Horace Fry, and its dis- 
covery is characteristic of Mrs. F'iske. It is not easy to tell how much 
of the powerful effect was due to the playwright and how much was 
due to the superb acting of F'rederick de Belleville and Mrs. Fiske, 
but in any reasonable division there is enough to reflect glory on both, 
especially since it is so rare for a tragedy to be written in America, 
and since this little piece, by the simplicity, force, and elevation of 
the feelings depicted, belongs almost clearly to that domain. If the 
passions depicted have been high and simple, if the essence of life 
seems to have been given so that it is right that life should end, we 
are satisfied, even if the tears stand in our eyes; and this is tragedy. 
If, as in ' Tess,' our attention has been taken up with details — bad luck, 
misunderstanding, and misfortune — and the depths of the soul have not 
been freely sounded when the knell comes, it is not tragedy, but rather 
what is known as ' a disagreeable play.' ' Little Italy ' was worthy of 
the brilliant acting it inspired. . . . Aided by Mr. De Belleville's 
deep emotion, as the husband, the protagonist (for it is part of the 
nobility of the play that he, and not the escaping lovers, are the centre), 
and by the direct passion of Mrs. Fiske's picture, this little piece had 
in it such rare worth that it ought often to be revived." 

From " The Boston Transcript," January 31, 1899. 

" At last we have a play which combines the brevity and terseness 
of one act with all the dignity and complete authority of the conven- 
tionally formed five-act tragedy. Mr. Fry has accomplished no insig- 
nificant task with his ' Little Italy,' and he has moreover accomplished 
it in no insignificant rnanner. His plot is both realistic and poetic in 
the extreme. His heroine, living in the Italian Quarter of New York, 
is overcome by an irresistible feeling toward her own sunny Italy, and 
when a former lover sings below her window in the street she induces 
her husband to call him up that she may learn his song. Left alone, 
they resolve to return to Italy together, but the wife is overtaken by 
an accident, explained by a very graphic theatrical device, and is brought 
back dead in her lover's arms. 

" This tale is condensed with unusual skill into a play occupying 
less than half an hour, and is throughout perfect in its construction, 
clear and forcible in dialogue, and thrillingly tragic in its effect. Its 
action does not halt for a moment, and pursues its course as swiftly 
and relentlessly as the heroine herself rushes blindly and irrevocably 
to her doom. Mr. Fry has the power of creating an impalpable and 
pervasive atmosphere by the simplest means known to playcraft. He 
does not lay on his colors indiscriminately and with no other purpose 
than to suggest Italy and the Italian people superficially, but he in- 



[49] 



APPENDIX 



spires each character with a dominating soul which indicates feeling 
and temperament much more strongly than mere costuming and scenic 
accessories can do. His ' Little Italy ' bears from the outset the stamp 
of fatality, and creates an effect equivalent to that arising from Thomas 
Hardy's work at its best. 

" But ' Little Italy ' is to be all the more highly commended for the 
opportunity it gives to show Mrs. Fiske's art in yet another phase. 
Her GiuUa is a veritable creation. She realizes the picturesque and 
merely pictorial element in the woman's character so perfectly that we 
seem to see and to understand her before she utters a word. And 
when she speaks she lays the woman's heart open before us. 
Once again let us say that Mrs. Fiske's greatest triumph in ' Little 
Italy ' IS that she visualizes the woman so thoroughly that we can see 
into her very soul. No lover of the dramatic art need hesitate for a 
moment over the problem as to whether he ought to see Mrs. Fiske." 

From " The New York World," March 31, 1899. 

" A one-act tragedy, called ' Little Italy,' by Horace B. Fry, which 
was performed last night by Mrs. Fiske at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, 
may be set down as one of the genuine successes of the year. It held 
a large audience spell-bound from beginning to end with its rapid 
accumulation of fine dramatic emotions. 

" Curtain-raisers, as a usual thing, are either harmless trifles or else 
incoherent, undeveloped plays, carrying no conviction. ' Little Italy ' 
is neither one nor the other. It is an intense and finished work of 
art; with nothing essential left out." 

From " New York Evening Sun," March 31, iSgg. 

" Mrs. Fiske scored a new triumph last night, and a new playwright, 
Horace B. Fry, gained his first hearing. The only wonder of it all 
is why Mrs. Fiske should have kept this remarkable play, ' Little Italy,' 
from the public until the very fag-end of her season at the Fifth 
Avenue. "To say that ' Little Italy ' is the best one-act play that New 
York has seen in years is putting the matter too mildly. Within the 
short half-hour which it takes to play it, Mr. Fry manages to concen- 
trate a tremendous amount of pathos and of passion. And as an artistic 
production it takes rank as a gem. As for Mrs. Fiske, she was com- 
pletely metamorphosed. It took minutes for the audience to realize 
that the dark, squatty, broad-limbed woman with despair in her eyes 
was really that slim, intense little parcel of nerves and intellect in a 
new disguise. And yet it was not her disguise alone that made her 
performance so uncommon. Both she and Mr. De Belleville, who 
played her husband, seemed to have reached down to the very soul of 
these two Italians and to have laid them bare. 

" It is rarely indeed that any audience witnesses such superb per- 
formances as these two artists gave in this little play last night. The 
play itself is as concentrated and intense as ' Cavalleria.' " 



[so] 



.8 ,1002. 



1 COPY DEL 
MAR. 3 



1902 



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